


heinous

by Anonymous



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Armitage Hux is Disgusting, Body Dysphoria, Bondage, Bottom Armitage Hux, Hurt No Comfort, Kylo Ren Has Issues, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive Behavior, Painplay, Past Rape/Non-con, Rough Kissing, Sexual Fantasy, Slurs, Unhealthy Relationships, Verbal Humiliation, pretty fucked, they're both disgusting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 02:03:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9152659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It was ridiculous for someone as esteemed as Hux was, someone with hiscapacity for destructionto imagine being pinned down against his will and used.... rather, it was as disgusting as he was, to crave violation sodeeplythat it overshadowed all rational thought until he was already trapped in his fantasy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ballvvasher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballvvasher/gifts), [slutpunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slutpunk/gifts).



> well, this is a gift for ballvvasher and slutpunk.
> 
> @ballvvasher we don't know each other, really, aside from having left kudos on each other's stories... but... I'm mildly obsessed with your fics... so. wishing you a happy (and depraved) 2017!
> 
> @slutpunk chapter 2 of this was written with you in mind as well-- or, more specifically, the thought of DSAM. we've actually talked a good bit, so let's see if you can figure out who I am ;) ;)
> 
> I didn't edit this at all before I posted it so if you see mistakes, just let me know in a comment.

Ever since Armitage could remember, he’d been called _thin._ Thin, of course, and _weak_ due to his too-pale skin, the dark circles along the edge of his eyes and the black-and-blue bruises left like stains across his pallid skin at the slightest of hits. Being bumped or jostled wasn’t unfamiliar, either-- too often, it seemed other cadets had gone out of their way, if only to knock him around a bit and _put him in his place._

_Skinny. Weak._

It had been easy for people to mock him; _easy,_ for them to lay their hands on him and smack him around, treat him like the _pathetic husk of a man_ they’d so often proclaimed he was. At the forefront of this commentary was his own father, always devaluing his being, underestimating him; _Armitage is a weak boy._ Sickly, Brendol had said, _sickly like his mother._ And as such, he’d fully expected Hux to _end up_ like his mother had; being used as a plaything for his betters, people who were stronger than him, pliant to the whims of superior officers.

_Effeminate. Fragile._

There was no denying what other people saw when they looked at him; a _boy,_ incapable of holding his own in a fight. A boy, who would likely throw himself at others shoes in order to please them, as though it would bestow upon him some sort of _value._ And when he’d been caught, that final, insufferable year before he’d left the Academy for good, fingering himself open in his bunk, one hand working over the leaking head of his cock as he’d nearly _whined_ for relief, it had only been another mark on his record-- a mark pointing toward his worthlessness, his _eagerness._ How needy he’d been, how easily taken apart...

_Thin as a slip of paper._

_Just as useless._

It _was_ decidedly laughable, how little it had taken for the other cadets to take him apart, roughing him up with a smack across his face, a hand fisted in his dappled-red hair, jerking him forward as his mouth was pried open and violated so roughly there was no means of removing himself. He could remember the feeling of fingers-- thick and calloused, lining large hands, not the delicate hands of a strategist like his own-- against the cheeks of his ass, forcing him open and spreading his hole apart until he could hear the _sneers,_ the inane slurs about his appearance, his _worthless body._

“ _Skinny pfaasking whore.”_

_“God, look at the way he bruises? Like a damn painting. Likes it too, the filthy bitch.”_

_“Well, you know what the Commandant said--”_

_“Only kriffing_ use _for you, Armitage. Taking a cock up that disgusting, stretched-out hole of yours like the rimkin slut you are. You think you’re better than us just because your father runs this place? You’re worthless.”_

Worthless.

**Worthless.**

How disgustingly true that had been. How disgustingly true it was, even now, for him to just _take_ it, take the comments about how _worthless-useless-hopeless_ he was, how his _failures-flaws-weaknesses_ were nothing more than pressure points to be exploited. And worse was how long he’d _known_ it, because, oh, _of course he had._

It wasn’t exactly practical for the endless slew of comments about Hux’s (lacking) body to continue weigh on his mind; not now. Not anymore. It wasn’t practical that, somehow, a violation of his body had turned into a deviant indulgence of some sort, years later; too often he found himself flashing back to the imprint of finger-shaped lines drawn into his waist, the slap of skin against skin as his ass was torn open, the trails of blood and cum that were sticky on his trembling, spread thighs. Now it was as much a fantasy as anything; the consideration that _someone_ might have the gall to do it again, to _push and push and take_ without giving anything in return.

And he considered it too often; considered what it might be like, to have his mouth pried open, plugged up with a gag, to be shoved face-first onto an icy tile floor, his knees buckling with the effort of trying to resist as his hands were bound over his head. Hux imagined how it would _feel,_ to be dragged about kicking and screaming, to be pried apart and _displayed,_ his unsteady legs quivering, shoulders rigid and head bowed forward in submission, the drag of his half-hard length an ever-growing presence against his thighs. He’d picture it while he was opening himself, his hole wet and twitching as he probed the space with his own digits, pulling the soft, pink muscle apart and stuffing himself full with his own hand.

One- two- three fingers, a _fist,_ thrusting between his legs with as little prep as he could stomach. Feeling the burn, and the _pain_ that came from being torn into, rearranged in the image of his own fantasies, was a perversion that Hux delighted in all too frequently.

Sometimes, he’d consider who might be depraved enough to give in, to _rape_ him, the way he so craved. He wondered if it was wrong that he didn’t cry anymore-- Armitage had cried, once, his lip bitten bloody and eyes filled to the brim with glossy, crystalline tears. Hux couldn’t say he understood why. He couldn’t say that he _understood_ what the point was, crying, begging for mercy as though he were some frightened civilian that couldn’t defend himself.

It was ridiculous for someone as _esteemed_ as himself, someone with the capacity to _destroy planets,_ to desire being strung up and broken in and _edged to the point of collapse._

And worse, was how _obvious_ he must’ve been. How _obvious,_ for that _lascivious scum,_ Kylo Ren, to merely shove him onto his desk after some contrived argument, how _obvious,_ when Ren was hissing out some insult that Hux could hardly make sense of, backhanding him across the side of his jaw, until an audible _smack_ resounded between them, promising.

Ren didn’t even bat an eye when Hux moaned, practically arching forward in lieu of the harsh treatment. His grip had tightened on Hux’s wrists, pinning them in place over his head with hands so large Hux was certain they could’ve encircled his torso completely. He hissed, breath heavy along the shell of Hux’s ear, _“you’re repulsive, Armitage,”_ as his hips pressed firm over the warm expanse of Hux’s ass, fingers ripping straight through the shallow seam along his crack.

Hux can feel the heaving of a brusque breath along the back of his neck, teeth sinking into his throat, above his collar, too high to hide marks. Ren’s fingers press inside him unceremoniously, sinking into his contracting heat until Hux _squeals,_ his dick caught between the metal of his desk and the intensity of the weight above him, hovering, _crushing._ Ren’s fingers curl, and Hux can imagine a sneer on his face as he hisses those words, _“filthy little slut,”_ manipulating his hand until it rubbed circles over that white-hot spot inside of him.

Another _thwack_ comes against his ass, as Ren pulls Hux’s pants down over his hips, leaves them to pool around his ankles before kicking them to the side carelessly.Hux’s muscles tense as they grip onto Ren’s fingers like a vice, _stay inside me, don’t go, I need your cock, need you to fill me up until I can see it, can see you pounding in and out of me until I’m raw and blemished and bleeding all over myself._

Those thick protrusions slide against the edge of his rim, playing on Hux’s prostate until his toes are curling, and he’s whining, two steps away from _forcing_ Ren to give it to him--

There’s a cuff being locked in place around one of his ankles, and then the other, and with his arms already high above his head, Hux has no means of moving aside from _thrusting,_ rutting his hips against the desk like a submissive animal, arching his back and keening into whatever punishment Ren bestows on him. His legs are spread so wide that Hux is sure they’ve been contorted into a position he’s never even come close to, and he can hardly seem to think anything aside from _do it, fucking--_

Ren doesn’t.

The telltale swish of robes and prominent footsteps across the floor are more than enough to signify his disappearance, the door to Hux’s office left wide open in his wake. And, blinking, Hux faces the entryway, the skin of his back prickling with goosebumps, urgency settling in his bones.

Because _this_ is something different entirely.

 _This_ is vulnerability, and he has no means of escaping it.

Hux’s eyes settle on a form in the hallway, and he writhes, bucking against the desk fervently as he gives a futile attempt to remove his hands from the restraints they’re currently in. He thinks of his parted thighs, of his rim still spit-slick and hole stretched wide, open and waiting for anyone to enter and use it. He thinks of how _easy_ it was for Ren to manipulate him, to manipulate the fantasy he _thought_ he wanted, and turn it into a nightmare once more.

“Well, what do we have here, General?”


	2. Chapter 2

Kylo had wanted it to go away-- the thoughts, the feel of nails clawing at his flesh and tearing him open from the inside, the absolute  _ depravity  _ that emanated from General Hux whenever they were so much as the same room. It wasn’t his problem to begin with; the General was  _ loud,  _ broadcasting his feelings all over the place and letting them consume him whole once he’d retired to his quarters for the night.

It was disgusting; abominable, to see the images imprinted on the back of Hux’s eyelids whenever he slipped into one of his fantasies. Large hands hot on his skin, around his neck and tearing into his waist, a cock slamming into his abused, bloodstained ass with the primitive nature of a madman; his mouth pried open and tongue pressed down, the tang of bitter cum trickling down the back of his throat…

It was  _ filthy. _

It was  _ heinous,  _ and Kylo wanted nothing more than for the General to shut up; and so, as he pins him down on his desk, he decides he could care less what fate befalls Armitage Hux, as long as he is out of the equation, away from the picture.

What he doesn’t expect is to return to the sight before him a good day later. Hux is sprawled across the floor, half-limp like a ragdoll, his skin ravaged by a litany of marks that trail down his lily-white throat and along the bony contours of his back. His legs are tucked up against his chest, thighs pressed firmly together and an excessive pool of sticky ejaculate gathered on the floor beneath him. With his hands still bound and his eyes tightly shuttered, clothes torn from his frail body completely, Hux looks more a slave than a General. He’s the exact picture of the fucked out whore that his peers had dismissed him as, once.

Alarmingly, the signals of distress are louder than they’d ever been before, broadcasting across the halls of the Finalizer in a manner akin to a lit beacon; blaring red and flashing everywhere, alarmed,  _ begging.  _ Kylo’s hand reaches out enough to rest on one of Hux’s rubbed-raw wrists, taking a moment to undo the binds still in place there before gathering the mess of a man into his arms. He’s not certain what enables him to do it.

The cum and blood streaking Hux’s body is overlaid by a strong scent of piss across his inner thighs. All of it mingles together, making Kylo half-disturbed at being made to hold the  _ creature  _ that is Hux so close to him. He doesn’t want anything to do with this… this  _ sickness  _ of Hux’s. And even if he had…

“I’ll wipe their memories,” Kylo says, as though he believes it will fix everything. And perhaps he does; Hux’s hands are fisted tight in the black fabric of his robes, nails sunk in deep enough to rip at the cloth should he so choose. His hair is matted, no longer slick with pomade or made to appear organized. When he glances up, those blue-green eyes swell with something that could easily pass for tears, though they are gone within the moment, as Hux gathers whatever dignity he still has.

“I hate you.”

It’s all he seems capable of saying. Even reaching out for the General’s stream of consciousness reveals only fragments of sanity, the rest overshadowed by the red sirens and a frightened boy curled into a ball on his bunk in the Academy. The room is dark around him, and like before, his legs are tucked to his chest, lips bitten deep and split, skinny arms across his torso as a last shield of defense. 

The Armitage that is in Hux’s mind doesn’t move; he doesn’t move because there are  _ voices,  _ just outside the room, the conversation floating through in bits and pieces. His father, Kylo thinks, somehow, and the man’s voice is  _ loathing, derisive. _

_ “Should’ve known it was only a matter of time-- asking for it-- trouble, he’s too weak. Useless-- frail child and sickly-- mother was right.” _

As if on cue a cracked sob pries its way from Hux’s lips like that of a torn animal. He scrambles to pick up the remnants of his once-pristine grey uniform from the floor, pulling the miscellaneous items into his arms and then gazing down at them, confused. Hux’s mind resounds with something that reeks of uncertainty; he has no idea what he’s doing.

Kylo projects.

“You should return to your quarters, General.”

“Yes,” Hux answers, his voice lifeless, no more autonomous than a droid. 

“Shower. Go to bed. Get up tomorrow morning-- you won’t remember any of this.”

And true to the Knight’s words, Hux scrambles off in the direction of the door, his clothes still held in a tight bundle against his chest. His body appears stiff, raw and aching with overexertion while he stumbles along the corridors. Kylo feels a twinge of sympathy in his chest-- he considers, briefly, whether he should’ve given Hux something to cover himself beforehand.

He decides, vaguely, that it doesn’t matter.

He hadn’t been the one to perpetrate this-- Hux had.  _ Hux  _ had, by projecting his  _ want  _ all over the ship, thoughts of ropes and grabbing hands and bruises shorn deep into him, a gag prying his mouth open and restraints holding his legs apart like the animal he was. He’d  _ asked  _ for it-- and this time  _ he had,  _ it was  _ his-- _

How was it that someone like the General could be so broken underneath the composure of his being-- his immaculate appearance, slicked hair, regulation uniform, obsessive organization? How was it that Hux could be so  _ undone  _ and yet so  _ perfect? _

And like that, Kylo clenches his fist.

He doesn’t understand. More than that, he  _ hates  _ it; hates what a degenerate Hux has proven himself to be, little more than an animal that lets his  _ feelings and desires  _ control him as much as anyone else. And Kylo had thought him  _ special.  _ He had thought that Hux was a being of callousness,  _ darkness,  _ who knew not to feel, who had no desires aside from his ascension to power.

He files this memory away, memorizes the details of Hux’s scarred body-- the scratches down his sides, the worn handprints over his hips and his thighs, his battered hole, stretched wide from his violation, the mixture of cum, blood and urine streaking his legs-- for later use. He keeps them, marked at the back of his mind and pushed into a corner for him to ruminate on whenever Hux attempts to talk down to him, scald him with those berating words, as though Kylo were nothing more than a  _ child. _

And they both know better, now. They both know that Kylo has more power than Hux ever will, and that Hux is little more than a  _ whore,  _ dependent on others for his own self-acceptance and pride. 

And perhaps, Kylo thinks, just  _ perhaps,  _ Hux will come to rely on him in the same way. He will come to realize that he  _ needs  _ Kylo, the power he wields, the strength of his excellence in the force. He needs Kylo to be there, to wrap strong arms around him and tuck him into his side, coddle him like a child. Because Hux is a  _ heathen,  _ and he’s desperate for reassurance, for  _ dependency,  _ even if he doesn’t know it yet.

Kylo imagines what it would be like to tie the General down, hold him while he’s caught in restraints and begging for someone to just  _ command him already.  _ He considers how Hux would look, enveloped in a straightjacket, buckles across his arms and waist, firmly anchored in place and unable to move. He wonders if the man would cry, and he imagines brushing back those messy strands of red hair, smoothing lines over his cheeks until the tears disappeared, and Hux was back to himself once more.

He decides that he  _ needs  _ to know. 

It’s not so much as simply wanting.

* * *

 

Hux is in his quarters, lying on top of the blankets, his skin nearly translucent with the dimmed light filtering in from the fresher. He’s not wearing any clothes, is hardly  _ moving  _ when Kylo enters, simply lies there, stretched out and naked, staring at a wall with such a singular focus it could be admirable. His body twitches, shifting slightly when Kylo moves in to lie down beside him, and as the Knight presses a thumb against his lower back, trails it along the curve of his spine, Hux  _ moans,  _ shivering and pressing back against him gently.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Kylo says, decisively. “Everything you need. I can… I can make you stronger.”

“You’re an imbecile,” Hux mutters, “if you think you can possibly do anything to fix me.”

“Who said anything about  _ fixing  _ you, Armitage?” Kylo questions, and his mouth presses gently over Hux’s stiff shoulderblade, massaging circles into the heated flesh until the redhead relaxes once more, lies limp and pliant against him. He turns Hux around, watches as the General’s dead orbs flash in surprise, before his chin tilts up and he shifts closer to Kylo, appraising.

“I’m filthy,” Hux mutters.

Then; “I’m a whore.”

_ Useless. _

“Sick.”

Kylo’s face betrays nothing of either his exhilaration, or his disgust, at those words. “I know.”

Hux smiles, something wicked that catches in the light between them, a glint of insanity. His eyes are sparkling with self-loathing and a need to combust on himself as soon as he finds a chance.

_ “Kiss me, Ren.” _

Against his better judgment, Kylo  _ does.  _ It’s nothing short of inconceivable, the way in which Hux bends, the curve of his back taut like a bow, arching against him and all but  _ straining,  _ his legs sliding apart as one shin comes to hook behind the Knight’s slack knee. Hux kisses like an animal, too; desperate, derelict and heady, his mouth crushing against Kylo’s and teeth sinking into a reddened lip, tongue delving between the open cavern of his mouth and silently begging for more. His nails score lines into lightly-tanned skin, clawing marks of red into the scarred-over flesh of Kylo’s defined arms, a submissive  _ beast  _ if a word could be applied.

Kylo flips him onto his stomach carelessly. When Hux quivers, his breath caught in a deep intake of surprise, he can’t help letting an arm slide down from the chilled skin of his neck, past his protruding vertebrae, along the crease of a loose muscle too long abused. Hux keens, close to whimpering, fingers catching in the grey sheets of his bed and pulling, teeth clenched in an expression of agony.

“You’re so  _ loose,”  _ Kylo says, and Hux  _ mewls.  _ “So  _ open,  _ General. Nothing more than an eager whore, aren’t you? Made to be taken by your betters.”

Hux shies away; he rolls back onto his side, away from Kylo, chin held up in a mere echo of his usual haughtiness. Even with the sheer  _ egotism,  _ the tremble of his lower lip betrays Hux’s innermost thoughts-- he doesn’t  _ want  _ this, not again. He’s broken enough,  _ humiliated,  _ and he doesn’t understand why he keeps  _ thinking  _ about it. Being  _ cornered, used, bare and aching, shattered and well-fucked, completely caved in...  _

Ben might have pitied him, this weak General.

“You’re a monster,” Hux spits, and his body spasms when a thumb presses over that tight furl of heat, so close to his center.

“And you aren’t?” Kylo asks, bemused.

“No,” Hux says. “Of course  _ I  _ am. But we’re different breeds, you and I. I’m self-immolating… and you’re just  _ chaotic.” _

The Knight has to quell his urge to laugh. “You think yourself a martyr, Hux? You brought this on yourself… do you even know how  _ loud  _ you are?” His fingers slide along a still-slick perineum; it is effortless to press himself inside, to spread and scissor the General out, until he’s half-bent forward, not a word of protest leaving his lips. “I think you want to be  _ cured,”  _ Kylo continues, teeth tracing the shell of Hux’s ear, nipping at the slightness of a pale lobe. “I think you want someone to  _ bring you to your knees.” _

Hux says nothing.

“I can be that person,” the raven-haired man acknowledges, his other arm slipping around Hux’s slight waist, tugging him flush against a broad chest that anchors the General’s lithe form in a place of submission. “I won’t  _ fix  _ you. But I can  _ free  _ you.”

Armitage’s hand slides back, between their rough, easily manipulated forms, teasing over the skin of his thigh. He turns, Kylo’s hand swiftly removing itself from where it had been pressed inside his body, gripping the Knight’s neck with a bare hand his other tight around a soft length, barely encompassing it and yet squeezing hard enough to threaten.

“What if I say  _ no?” _

“It doesn’t matter,” Kylo says, and within seconds, Hux is flat on his back, legs spread wide, head turned to the side and neck exposed, hands high over his head while the Knight kneels between his legs, looming over him like something out of his deepest-seated nightmares. “Did you expect anything else, Armitage?  _ You know I can take whatever I want. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible. I love that about me.
> 
> I hope you guys found it... to your tastes. ;) To anyone who did, leave a comment if you're so inclined!


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